


Playing the Part

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Forced Prostitution, M/M, Past Character Death, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-07-12 15:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15997763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Several years ago, Slade's son Grant died competing in the Hunger Games, and the boy who killed him, Dick Grayson, became the Capitol's new favourite plaything. Now, seeking the means to undermine the totalitarian government that called on his son to die in the first place, Slade needs access to the secrets its high-ranking citizens seek to hide. Secrets that Dick, with their tentative connection and the justification Slade's position as a high ranking peacekeeper gives him to call on the boy, is in the perfect place to supply.All Slade has to do is give him the right motivation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, this is all largely the fault of an [ask](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/post/174276491521/love-all-your-au-fics-with-jason-have-you-thought) Fire got on tumblr about the Batfam in a Hunger Games setting, then the question arose of where Slade would be and well... here we are XD Hope you all enjoy!

“Do you remember me?” is the first thing Slade asks, as the door shuts behind him.

The boy on the bed doesn’t look much the scrawny child he first met six years ago. He’s grown up since then, filled out in many ways. The clothes he wears have given up the idea of innocence, swapped out instead for a svelte collage of black and blue that’s effortlessly form fitting. His hair is cut just on the side of long, shaped in a way that frames his face and the delicate weave of feathers some idiot stylist has painted around the corners of his eyes. He smiles in a way that’s beautiful but vacant, empty of everything but what he perceives his paying customers will want to see.

“Yes,” Dick says, voice lightly husky in a way that seems effortless at first. “Of course I do.”

Everything about his pose seems open and welcoming, but when Slade had first entered the room he’d seen the way the boy’s eyes had widened, the mask dropped for a split second to convey fear before he’d expertly covered it back up again. Not many would have noticed, but Slade has practice in such things, and he’d been looking for it besides.

The first time they’d met, it had been during Dick’s victory tour. Slade had used his authority as a peacekeeper to gain entry to the boy alone, to look in the eye the one who’d lived when his own son had died. To get the measure of what made him survive when Grant didn’t.

(Less weight, a thin branch, and no goddamn _patience_ from his son were all the answers he ever managed to find.)

Freshly traumatised, Dick had been nothing more than shaking limbs, wide eyes and apologies back then. It’s almost disappointing to see what being consistently used by Panem’s elite has done to him now.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

There’s a brief hesitation as the kid tries to feel him out, searching for what he’s wanting. “That depends, what are you looking for?”

The curve of his smile grows more sensual as he leans back on the bed, exposing the open collar of his shirt and the lace running over his stomach, but tantalising as that sight is, the way in which it’s presented only threatens to make Slade’s mood sour as he steps forward.

This is not what he came for.

“Not that,” he replies cooly. “Drop the performance, Grayson. It’s been a long time, and I’m not here for whatever simpering act you put on for your regulars. I’m here to see the real you.”

“The real me?” Dick replies, still smiling, vapid and vacant. “I don’t know what you mean. This is the real me.”

Slade snorts. “If that was the real you, you’d never have survived the arena, and my son would be the one breathing air in your place instead.”

His words have the desired effect, cutting through the polished Capitol veneer to the real boy beneath. Dick breathes in sharply, reflexively, stung by the guilt he doubtless still holds onto even now. Even though all he did was try to survive the same as every other tribute ever reaped for the games.

“Are you here to hurt me?” he asks quietly, dropping the charm in favour of resigned wariness.

Hurt, not kill. Dick’s smart enough to recognise that, at least. The Capitol will never let one of its most profitable victors die, either by their own hand or anyone else’s.

“Hm.” Crossing the room to the side table, Slade removes his gloves, one after the other, and sets them down. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you’ve grown into.”

Dick’s gaze follows him for a moment before he sits up, legs swinging off the side with all the effortless, thoughtless grace the Capitol grinds into its prettier tributes. “I can’t stop you either way, alright? So there’s no point in lying to me about what you’re here for. You’ve apparently paid for me, so whatever you want you might as well just take it.”

The last step is an easy one, and the kid shuts up as Slade extends a hand to tilt his jaw up, before slipping a thumb up to very deliberately smear the delicate design painted beside his eye. It’s satisfying in a small, petty way to disrupt that perfect Capitol veneer. Dick just watches him do it. Doesn’t argue when he does it to the other side either, smearing gold and black paint across his skin.

“As if looking at that bullshit show you put up for the screens would show anyone anything close to what you are.”

Dick’s jaw tightens just a touch beneath his fingers. “It’s what I _have_ to be.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” Slade answers, watching his reactions closely. “At least you haven’t fallen to drugs or drink the way most victors do yet. Pretty impressive, considering how long you’ve been doing this.”

And how much longer he’ll have to continue. Dick has years left in him yet before his looks will start to fade and he’s used up to the point no Capitolite will want him anymore, if indeed that ever happens.

“Yet?” Dick repeats quietly, catching onto that particular phrasing.

“There’s always time.”

He gets the pleasure of watching Dick’s jaw tighten once again, before he says, “You know for not wanting me to play games, you’re doing a lot of it yourself.”

Dick stays utterly still as Slade lowers his fingers to graze underneath his jaw, back along the shell of an ear. “Well, that’s what I paid for, isn’t it? To get to play games?” He pushes his fingers into the softness of Dick’s hair, curling them just tight enough to hold as he leans down to speak into his ear. “But you’re only here to be whatever I want you to be, Grayson. That’s all that should matter to you right now; keeping me happy.”

The kid’s tone is caught somewhere between anger and wariness when he says, “So tell me _how_. What do you want?”

Not what he’s implying, but Dick doesn’t need to know that.

“Alright,” he says, agreeing with the first part of the kid’s plea but not the second quite yet.

He tugs relatively gently at Dick’s hair, guiding him to his feet. The kid’s taller than he was, but still no match for Slade’s height or bulk, and his head has to stay tilted back for him to meet Slade’s gaze. He will admit, for all that he dislikes the shallow automaton the boy’s been scraped into the shape of, it is a pleasing shape. Relatively natural hair, pretty blue eyes, and the body beneath the pathetic covering of lace is more muscular than the thin, lean waifs that the Capitol usually prefers.

If he didn’t have other goals in mind — and this wasn’t the boy indirectly responsible for his son’s death — he might be more interested. As it is, he can fake interest.

“Let’s talk about what I want,” he murmurs, tracing the very edge of his nails down the back of Dick’s neck to watch him twitch. Almost shudder, but hold it back. “And I’d suggest you give it to me, boy. After all, if I tell the ones holding your leash that you were uncooperative, well…”

Dick’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.

He gives the kind of smile he’d use on a prisoner, sharp and small, and steps to the side, circling to stand at the boy’s side. There’s no resistance to how Slade slides his palm over the front of Dick’s throat, pulling him back against his chest till the kid’s head is pinned at one shoulder, and the curve of his back forms a pleasing arch that actually touches only at his hips and shoulders. Avoidance or tactic, Slade isn’t entirely sure. Either way, it doesn’t fully fit what he wants out of this position — for Dick to feel each inch of difference between their sizes, and be intimidated by it — so he puts his other hand to Dick’s chest, roughly at his solar plexus, and pushes till the kid flattens back against him.

He can feel the kid swallow, under the light press of his hand.

“How many of these peacocks do you see a week, boy?” he asks, lowering his head to speak almost against Dick’s forehead, in a low, intimate voice.

“I… it varies.” the obvious confusion in the boy’s reply makes clear how deeply Slade has wrongfooted him.

“Give me an average,” he prompts further.

“T-three.” Dick’s breath hitches as Slade tightens his fingers slightly, “Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

Depending on whether he has other obligations as a Victor to get to that week, he means. Playing the part of the mentor when the games roll around — though being from District 1, they’re not in short supply for those tributes — or making appearances on television to let the baying masses catch up with what’s been going on in his life. He’s even seen them make the kid perform the daring acrobatics that let him survive the arena from time to time, dressed in silk and swinging through the air as if he has wings.

“Three,” Slade repeats. “Important people among them, I imagine. District directors, gamemakers, politicians...”

“What’s your point?” Dick cuts in. His tone is sharp, but his pulse is beating like a rabbit’s under Slade’s fingers.

“My point is, those people, once they’re done getting their rocks off, they talk to you don’t they? Sex with a sweet, little pretty-eyed boy, the perfect recipe to loosen someone’s tongue. Maybe even make them let slip certain information they shouldn’t have.”

Dick stiffens as the realisation strikes him. “... You want me to tell you what they’ve said.”

“That’s right,” Slade hums. “Anything and everything that’s relevant to the security of Panem.”

He can practically hear the cogs turning in the kid’s mind as he considers it. “Is… if this is some kind of investigation into someone, why not just—”

“That’s for me to know, boy, not you.” Slade forces Dick’s face up to look at him. “Just do as I say and we won’t have a problem, and I won’t have to resort to other reasons for being here.”

It’s a cruelty to play on the boy’s own natural suspicions as to his purpose here, but Slade has no other option than to do so. Being honest would be too risky for both of them, better to let Dick fill in the blanks himself and run with it.

Swallowing thickly, Dick nods. “Okay.”

He’s suffered long enough under the Capitol’s yolk to know not to attempt to question Slade any further, lest punishment come in the form of flesh from his own back or worse. Something Slade takes full advantage of as he pushes Dick back down onto the bed and then sits beside him.

“Good boy. Now, why don’t we start with your visitors from the past month.” When Dick hesitates a moment longer, Slade only has to raise an eyebrow and place a lightly threatening hand on his shoulder. “Well, what are you waiting for? _Talk_.”

And so he does.

 

* * *

 

Slade visits regularly, but not all that often, and Dick's relieved at first that that's the case. Most of their conversations happen in passing; brief words exchanged while Dick's out making his conscripted public appearances, and Slade happens to be working security or visiting the same area. Nothing suspicious, just a piece of the more time-sensitive information hidden inside a flirting smile, looking like the same way he talks to anyone else. The same way he's required to speak to any of his 'visitors,' if they want him to. Even outside of his prison cell of an apartment.

As time passes, Dick grows less and less convinced that Slade just 'happens' to be anywhere.

Capitol games are subtle things, but Dick's learned more than his fair share about them, given that he was conscripted into a life as one of their pawns. He can recognize some of the moves now, and even with his supposed neutrality, Slade is clearly playing too. Maybe playing more than any of the others, given all the information he's collecting, or at least playing very well to his specific role. He doesn't have the spotlight (as far as Dick's seen), but he also doesn't seem to want it, and that's contrary to everything that Dick's learned about Capitol citizens so far. Smiles and excess and mind games, all of them. And not a single damn one can be trusted to keep their word, even when it's given.

All except one, anyway.

Slade shows up to his apartment once a month, and he listens to all the information Dick's picked out of the people around him. Blackmail, cheating, even stupid things like which Capitol citizen had some wardrobe malfunction and is the current topic of discussion. It can't all be useful, but he still listens. And though he threatens, intimidating through sheer size and the calm impassiveness of his expression, Slade… never hurts him. Never even starts to.

Dick knows better than to believe that he's _safe_ , but he does come to believe that there's a sort of understanding between them. Just like Slade offered. Give information, stay useful, and nothing else will happen. That's comforting, in its own way. And in public, Slade never acts with anything but calm professionalism. Never touches him beyond how any peacekeeper might, never presses the advantage of their association or even betrays that it exists.

It's a refreshing breather from having the Capitol elite breathing down his neck, pinching and prodding and expecting him to laugh along with them and take it all in stride. Being able to be himself, to not smile, or flirt, and have that be okay… He'd almost forgotten what that was like.

The strange part comes when Slade shows up to his apartment one month, and within a few moments takes his face in hand and sweeps a gentle thumb over the heavy bruise decorating his eye and a good portion of the left side of his forehead. The stylists tried to hide it, they really did. There’s a heavy pattern of paint on his face, almost matching the colors of the bruise where it sweeps upwards from his other eye and making it look near intentional.

Slade spots it immediately. Returns from a striding detour to the bathroom with a damp cloth and wipes the paint from his face, till Dick’s sure the bruise stands out in vivid color, without anything to soften it. Then, to his surprise, asks him where he got it.

Information is their agreement, so he answers.

Two weeks later, one of Dick’s visitors mentions that the same man he gave Slade the name of has been arrested. Skimming profits from one of the districts, apparently, through the business he owns. Information that Dick remembers passing onto Slade, months ago, when it was offhandedly implied to him.

He doesn’t know if he believes it’s just coincidence, and that niggling suspicion bothers him so much that eventually he can’t help but bring it up with another.

Dick finds Jason Todd on the roof of the Tribute Training Center, up where the wind roars highest and loudest, and the risk of being overheard by any bugs or spies is minimal. The younger man — boy, really — has a cigarette in hand as he lies stretched out on his back, staring up at the sky through the force field overhead with singular focus.

“What do you want?”

“Hey, yourself,” Dick replies, unbothered by the brusque greeting. Jason’s win was only last year, and particularly brutal and savage, even for the games. District 6’s newest victor has a chip on his shoulder a mile wide as a result. He’s still adjusting to what it means to be a winner of the Hunger Games — all the ‘fame and fortune’ that comes with it. “What are you doing up here?”

“Hoping for a minute of peace and quiet. How about you?”

Dick sits down next to him, drawing his legs tight to his chest and hugging them. Their friendship is unusual; even outside of the arena, victors from the career districts tend to be distrusted by the others, but, thankfully for Dick, Jason doesn’t seem to care about any of that.

In fact, he doesn’t seem to care much about anything.

“I needed someone to talk to,” he opens, honestly.

That catches Jason’s attention. Dick watches his eyes narrow and actually look up at him through the white trauma streak the stylists had allowed to stay in his fringe (it had been the Capitol’s hottest new fashion trend for a good six months afterwards, as a matter of fact, alongside the rest of the bad boy image they’d cultivated for him). “Talk about what?”

Dick licks his lips, weighing exactly how he’s going to say it. “You remember when that guy marked my face up a few weeks back?”

“Sure. Stylists were pissed; I got an earful.”

“He got arrested. They found out he was stealing Capitol funds from one of the Districts.”

Jason flicks what’s left of his cigarette across the roof. “Yeah? Good riddance, then,” he sneers, “He deserves to swing, just like the rest of them.”

Even up here, hearing Jason say such openly hateful things against the Capitol causes Dick to flinch. Sentiments like that one could get the skin flayed from the younger boy’s back, should they ever be overheard by the wrong ears. “Jason…”

“What?”

Dick sighs, reaching up to rub the space between his brows, “I can’t help thinking… there’s something that feels strange about the timing of it.”

He can tell the moment Jason actually starts to pay attention to what he’s saying, because he leans up on his elbows and actually turns his head to look at his face. “What do you mean?”

“I have another client,” Dick begins hesitantly, “A regular. He’s a Peacekeeper.”

“A Peacekeeper’s seeing you? Regularly?” Jason’s eyebrows raise.

“Yes,” Dick says hurriedly. He doesn’t want Jason to pry any deeper into that part of it. Doesn’t want to tell him that the Peacekeeper in question is the one whose son died trying to kill him in the arena. Any questions he could ask would lead to why Slade would want to see him, what they do together, and he can’t… he can’t tell him that. “He saw the bruise, asked me who did it. And now…”

Jason sits up completely, shifting his shoulders to adjust the fall of his jacket. “You think he had something to do with the guy being arrested?”

“Maybe? I don’t know,” Dick purses his lips, looking down. “It just doesn’t feel like coincidence to me.”

“Did he seem pissed when he asked you about the bruise?”

Dick shrugs, glancing off to the side. “He never seems pissed about anything.”

“Huh,” Jason frowns, “It bother you?”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.”

Dick plucks at some of the embroidery on the bottom of his shirt. “It bothers me that I don’t know for sure.”

He watches Jason pull out another cigarette. They’re thin, delicate, wrapped in black paper and with gold at the filter. Capitol cigarettes, nothing like the rough stubby things they smoke in the Districts. “Maybe you should just ask him about it, then.”

Dick snorts, “Yeah, right. That sounds like a great idea. Ask the Peacekeeper if he got someone tried for treason for a victor from District 1. Absolutely, that would work out well for me.”

“Well then, maybe I should just slap you myself. That way if I turn up dead in a week you’ll know for sure.”

“Don’t joke.”

Jason lights the cigarette in the shelter of his other hand, to make sure the wind doesn’t blow the flame of the lighter out. “Who said I was joking?” he says, only just loud enough for Dick to hear it. He frowns, but Jason’s already tucking the lighter away and taking a breath in. “If you don’t think it’s safe to ask, don’t. But unless he spontaneously confesses desperate love or something getting hurt again is probably the only way you’re going to find out.”

Dick can’t help snorting at the thought. Slade? Love him? Yeah right. At best, Slade might be protecting him for being an asset, or something. That, or… Or it really was just a coincidence. Maybe Slade is running investigations on everyone Dick’s told him about and this just happened to come to fruition first. That’s far more likely than anything else.

“I just want to know if you think it’s possible, that’s all.”

“Anything’s possible, Dick,” Jason answers, with a sudden dark flare in his eyes, “So, yeah, sure. You’ve got a secret Peacekeeper guardian. Well done, you.”

Dick reaches out to shove his shoulder. He supposes that’s the best he’s going to get. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Far too late for that.” Jason lies back, stretching out and apparently not caring about the grit that’s sure to get on his jacket. Well, it’ll fit his image. Dick doesn’t get that luxury. “Well, guess there’s only a couple questions left to ask, then.”

His eyes narrow at the falsely-casual tone. “Like what?”

He gets the flash of a grin, smoke blown out and whipped away by the wind. “Is he hot?”

It takes him utterly aback. “ _Jason!_ ” he spits, feeling bizarrely scandalized. “He’s a Peacekeeper!”

“So he’s probably in shape, right? Come on, is the sex any good? Must be a nice change to have someone with some actual goddamn muscle and stamina, who isn’t dripping paint and feather clippings all over your bed.”

“I—” He bites down _hard_ on the ‘I don’t know’ that’s the honest answer. That’s a secret he can’t give up. _Won’t_ give up. If anyone finds out he’s selling secrets… He’s a lot more vulnerable to reprisal than Slade is; all they have to do is buy his time.

“Struck silent, huh? Is he that bad, or that good?” Dick’s still not sure how to answer that, which means Jason adds, “Or what, into something weird? Enormous cock?”

Dick flushes. Well, he really hasn’t fully wondered whether Slade is _proportionate,_ but now the idea is in his head. And he’s probably… probably not bad, for looks. He’s not as old as the white hair suggests, so presumably he‘s still pretty fit under the uniform, even if Dick’s never seen it. He’s handsome, in a certain way. Dick can see how some people might be attracted, if they… if they leaned that way.

“Knock it off,” he settles on answering, instead of outright lying. Easier to get away with.

Jason snorts. “Why? If we’re going to get sold around to these bastards like pieces of meat, we should at least be able to talk about the fucking sex.” It’s said lightly, but it’s impossible to miss the sharp bitterness that leaks in around the edges. “Not like we have any privacy; why bother pretending? We should get to enjoy the tiny bits of this fucking hell that are actually worth enjoying without feeling shame about it.”

Dick steals a glance at him, and the edges to his expression that are only slightly more hidden than the ones in his words. “You get any of those?” he asks, even though he’s not sure he wants to know the answered.

Jason doesn’t immediately answer, but after a moment offers him a drag from the cigarette. Another moment passes before Dick lets himself take it. There’s something pleasurable about sharing a vice with a friend, however small it might be. Not like the Capitol will let him suffer anything from it either.

“Here and there,” Jason says, taking the cigarette when he passes it back. “The second they let me leave, I’m out of here. Back home. Let the bastards make the fucking trip if they still want to see me.”

Dick doesn’t say, even though he thinks it, that it’s a pipe dream Jason’s better off not believing in. He’s too obviously angry and unstable for them to let him out of their sights, and unfortunately also too attractive. The Capitol will keep him here till he either calms down, or till people stop wanting him, and neither of those are likely to happen any time soon. Even if it did, Jason’s the one that would be shipped back to the Capitol whenever he was wanted, not the other way around. Dick… He was home during the victory tour, briefly. He saw his new house. And then he was back in the Capitol a week later, and there’s never been any word about him leaving since.

Instead of voicing that reality, Dick just swallows it down and says, “You really should cut back on those.”

“No way,” Jason laughs, and thankfully it sounds a little less splintering than his last words. “These bastards owe me, I’ll take every little thing from them I can get.”

Dick shakes his head, but knows there’s no real way of talking him out of it. He stays there with Jason another half hour before their separate schedules mean they have to leave. Neither of them bring up anything more loaded than the taste of the cigarette.

“Take it easy, Dickface,” Jason says, before stepping out on his level from the elevator, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I’ll try.”

 

* * *

 

It was probably a mistake to let his emotions get the better of him when it came to getting rid of the man who hurt Dick, but Slade still feels more than a measure of satisfaction over the results. He’d sobbed like the pathetic little worm he was when they arrested him, and it was one more drain off the Districts, as well as a commendation from the Capitol for Slade. Neither of the powers he’s beholden to can complain about that.

His next appointment with Dick seems to roll around quickly. Extra length this time. Perhaps it’s meant to be a reward from his superiors, though Slade’s certain they won’t need it. Dick rarely has that much to tell him.

As usual, he lets himself inside the apartment. Dick is waiting for him as usual, dressed up like a glittering doll. Though he’d given up on theatrics after their first couple of meetings, the stylists still decorate him for every occasion, and for the sake of not arousing suspicion neither of them can voice any objection to it.

“Hey,” Dick greets him, a smile on his face that’s become more and more prevalent the last few months. Not seductive, scared, or even particularly wary now. Their visits have become routine for him now, and of late Dick’s attitude has even started to inch towards friendly, rather than ambivalent. “Would you like a drink?”

It’s hard not to let his eye draw down the bare expanse of Dick’s chest as the boy moves closer. Slade nods, “Sure, kid. Whatever you’ve got.”

“On duty after this?” the kid asks, heading in the direction of the refrigeration unit in the corner, behind the expanse of a bar Slade’s never seen in use.

“No. End of my day.”

Dick’s figure vanishes behind the length of the bar as he crouches down, but his voice drifts out from behind it. “I heard you have me for extra time today?”

Slade grunts agreement, pulling his gloves off and setting them aside. Dick pops back up with a glass in one hand and a large bottle of something distinctly alcoholic in the other. “Seems to be what happens when you do the Capitol a favor.”

It’s almost non-existent, but he could swear that Dick freezes for a moment after he says that. “A favor?”

“Mmhm.” Slade says nothing else, and after the kid looks away from him.

“Right,” he says, “I know, I shouldn’t ask questions.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

He sits down on the plush sofa that takes up on side of the room. As soon as he does, Dick comes to place the glass down on the table in front of him and pour the drink. It’s warm, amber. Whisky, Slade knows, as soon as he takes the first sip of it, and he watches as Dick sits himself down a cushion away with a glass of his own.

“So,” the kid says, twisting the drink around his hand, “I guess I should start talking now.”

“That would be the idea.” Slade replies dryly, drinking more and failing to stop himself from raising an eyebrow. Dick knows the drill by now, why he even has to say it is beyond him.

A flush colours Dick’s cheeks beneath the glitter as he starts to talk, though it soon starts to fade the deeper he gets into all the sins and excess of the Capitol’s elite. The same disgust most from the Districts wear for their rulers makes itself known by the hard look in his eyes and the even harder inflection of his words.

That honesty of emotion is another thing Slade has coaxed out of him during their time together.

He memorises everything he’s told. Every affair, every corruption and lie. It’s too dangerous to put the information to pen and paper, or any other means either. Luckily, he’s always had a rather excellent memory.

“... and I guess that’s all of it.” Dick says, “Except, well… there is one last thing.”

It’s an oddly hesitant set of words, for the forthcoming nature of the conversation so far. Slade doesn’t let himself react to the oddness, except to take another small sip of the drink. Dick’s already finished his.

“Then spit it out, kid.”

Dick chews his lip a moment, ruining the effect of his lip gloss. “I heard… Julius Veselius was arrested last week. On charges of skimming Capitol funds.”

Slade adjusts his grip slightly on the glass, sinking back further into the sofa. “Yes, he was,” he replies nonchalantly.

“... you knew?”

“Kind of my job to know, kid.” He rolls his eye. “There a point to this?”

The kid glances away, then clasps his hands between his knees, staring down at them. “Were you involved?” he asks, quietly.

Slade meets the gaze when it turns to him, wary like the kid doesn’t want to look at him, but doesn’t want to miss his reaction. Not that he has any intention of giving a reaction. Or a confirmation.

He drains the last bit of his drink and sets it on the table. “What have I told you about asking me questions, kid?”

“Not to,” Dick replies at once. He swallows thickly. “Only, he was the one I told you—”

“Dick, that’s enough.”

Slade’s rare use of his name is enough to cut Dick off from what he was about to say alone, and when he leans forward as well, he watches the kid’s adam’s apple bob delicately up and down all over again.

“You give me information, not the other way around. That’s the deal, remember?”

“Yes,” Dick says quietly, lips pursed.

“Good. Then if you don’t have anything else worth telling me, I’ll be on my way.”

He moves to stand after placing down his glass, then reaches again for his gloves. But before Slade’s even finished pulling on one, he feels Dick step in close behind him. “What?” he asks, without looking back.

He practically hears the kid inhale, no doubt trying to build his courage to push his luck again, only what actually comes out of his lips is the last thing Slade expects.

“We still have an hour,” Dick says, as if he could have forgotten. “You could… stay, if you wanted to.”

Slade doesn’t turn around. “And why would I want to do that?” he asks after a beat too long, pulling the second glove on.

The kid steps around him, just far enough to be in front of him but not actually in his way, if he moves to leave. There’s wariness in his eyes, but something like determination too. Slade’s not sure that he likes the idea of Dick being _determined_ to do what he’s suggesting.

“Well,” the kid starts, and moves closer, looking up at him with little hints of that Capitol training in his posture, how he tips his head back. No smile though, no mask. It’s a step up. “I guess that would be up to you.”

Slade lowers his hands with a calm that he doesn’t entirely feel. The dislike leaks into his tone and words as he says, “I didn’t do my _job_ so you would be grateful enough to blow me; don’t fool yourself into thinking you matter to me.” He shifts forward and grabs the boy’s arm, dragging him forward the last few inches between them and not really liking that Dick doesn’t try and pull away, only stares up at him with clear nervousness. “You’re a source, nothing more. I’d get your head out of those delusions before I get tired of them.”

Dick is stiff under his hand, but then his jaw sets. His voice shakes a bit. “I don’t think it’s coincidence that the only person that’s gotten arrested off what I’ve told you was one that hurt me.”

These are the reasons that he shouldn’t have intervened. Dick, even if he has been molded into a Capitol toy, isn’t as vapid or empty as these idiots. He’s smart enough to recognize patterns, and Slade’s given him an unfortunately obvious one. Which just means that he has to break it, before the kid puts anything concrete together or tries digging deeper into his reasoning.

Slade gives a rough huff of laughter, and lifts his other hand to slide over the side of Dick’s neck and grab a handful of the hair at the back of his skull tight enough to be painful. Just enough to make his point. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. If I wanted to fuck you, I’d do it. I never had to do you a favor to get you on your knees.”

“That’s not what I was saying,” Dick protests, still not really fighting him.

“Really? Because it was sounding an awful lot like you were trying to pay me for some imaginary favor by offering to _let_ me have you.”

The kid’s jaw tightens. “And what if that’s not the reason? What if it’s because I want to instead?”

Something inside Slade twists at the words. Looking at Dick’s upturned face, he suddenly has the powerful urge to wipe away all that awful glitter from his cheeks. “Then you’d be as much a fool as the Capitol makes you out to be.”

Dick swallows hard, then nods, “Okay. I guess I’m a fool, then.”

There’s a rough flush to his cheeks under all the paint, and his eyes are darker than normal as he wets his lips in a way that’s absent enough to actually be natural. Slade tightens his grip on Dick’s wrist in response.

He didn’t see this coming. Out of all the outcomes of this association they have, their agreement, he never imagined the boy’s feelings towards him could ever be anything but fear and guilt. Is this just physical attraction talking? Is it a lie? Or is there more involved.

Does it even matter in this moment?

Somehow, Slade doesn’t think so. He can’t subscribe to ever being a good man. Everything he does is for selfish reasons — even his funnelling of information out of the Capitol to those who seek to tear it down. He doesn’t care about the needs of the many, justice, or anything else. Only what gets him what he wants. The safety of those he has left.

And looking down at Dick now, at the open-chested excuse for a shirt and the black hair curled in his fist, Slade is intimately aware of one thing.

He _wants_.

God, does he want.

“You’ll regret this,” he says, in one last attempt to change the boy’s mind and control himself.

“Maybe,” Dick answers, shivering in his grasp, “but at least I’ll still have chosen it.”

Slade can’t argue that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is pretty much all porn leading on from the first. We hope you enjoy ;)

It only takes Slade a breath to cast any inhibitions back to the depths of his mind. If the kid wants this, why should he hold back? No one’s ever called him a good man.

With a twist of his hand, he forces Dick’s head back further, until the arch of his neck and back must be bordering on painful. Their first kiss is not gentle, but hard and unforgiving. The kind of kiss shared by two people who should not be engaging in anything close to the act. Slade can taste whisky on his tongue, as well as something else. Sweet, like the boy had been eating candy before he got here.

It’s a taste he feels he could easily get used to.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Slade asks, once they’ve broken it, forcing himself to keep his voice steady even as he crushes Dick’s body up against his own.

The kid’s eyes are dark with growing lust, and so his answer comes out sluggish and slightly confused, “Down… down the hall to the right. Why?”

“Because I’m not doing a damn thing with you while you’ve still got that crap on your skin.”

Keeping his grip firm on Dick’s arm, Slade doesn’t hesitate to steer him down the hallway and through the door that was indicated to him. It’s no surprise to find that bathroom beyond is up to the usual Capitol standards, huge and lavish, with a large bathtub. But it’s to the shower that Slade turns his attention, as always seeking the most efficient means towards getting what he wants.

He lets go of Dick just long enough to get the water going before turning back to him, seizing the boy about the waist and engaging him in another kiss. From this position, it’s easy to hook a hand in the fragile material of the sad excuse for a shirt he’s wearing and rip it off. The silk making a satisfying tearing sound as it goes down.

“The stylists are going to kill me,” Dick pants, the moment he can.

“It won’t be the worst thing they’ve dealt with from you, I’m sure.” Completely unsympathetic, Slade carelessly drops the garment to the floor. Then, lowering his head so his mouth is right next to Dick’s ear, darkly says, “And not the worst thing you’ll do today, either.”

Dick notably shudders in his arms. “Slade…”

“Take off the rest of it,” he orders.

Obeying, Dick steps back away from him, and even as he continues to detest the glitter on his skin, Slade can’t help but admire the expanse of lithe muscle that’s unveiled as he strips. Any shame the boy had about his body seems to have been left behind after years of being gawked at by the baying masses, so even just the simple act of removing his shoes and pants he turns into a graceful act. Perhaps not even a conscious one at this point, because when Dick straightens back up to look at Slade again his expression is naturally soft and flushed and eager. Hardly the face of someone working to seduce.

Slade lets himself take a long moment to drink the sight in. It’s never been hard to see why Dick became the Capitol’s darling after his games, but seeing him like this puts that knowledge into overdrive. Slade wants to devour him, this boy who lived in Grant’s place. To do things so filthy Dick will never again be able to think of anyone but him.

And why shouldn’t he? The boy asked for this. He was warned.

“Get under the water,” he says to that end, unzipping the front of his jacket.

Dick moves at once, and only gasps a little at the temperature Slade has set as he steps into the shower. The flow of the water by itself isn’t enough to get rid of the glitter on his skin, but that’s all right. Slade is more than happy to get hands on in this case.

The boy arches under the stream of water, steam rising off the tile under his feet. Slade eyes the line of that back as he rolls his shoulders and lets the jacket slide off, setting it aside on the counter. Then he kneels, forcing restraint back into his movements as he works on the laces of each boot and gets them off as well. When he lifts his gaze Dick is watching him, one shoulder against the tile wall and his hair flattened to his skull, paint running in colorful lines down his cheeks as the water starts to destroy the patterns. It's fascinating and irritating all at once, making Slade want to get rid of it entirely, as quickly as possible.

He doesn't make a show of anything, just sheds his pants with the same efficiency as everything else before stepping forward. 

“Slade...” Dick starts to say, lips parting prettily as he stares at his naked body, but Slade doesn’t give him a chance to continue. He grabs the boy by the arm instead, dragging him forward and in against his chest. The heat of their skin pressed together almost outstrips that of the water as Slade hooks his other hand in Dick’s hair and forces his head back so that he can kiss him again.

This time, he tastes the paint along with the sweetness, and it only spurs him on with what he intends to do next.

The shelves next to the shower are almost sagging with the weight of all the fancy bath products sitting on them, but it’s a simple sponge that Slade reaches for first. He waits only long enough for it to get wet before setting it to Dick’s skin and working to scrub away all that awful glitter.

“Really hate it, don't you?” the boy gasps. 

Slade doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead he sinks his teeth into the tempting plumpness of Dick’s bottom lip and revels in the resultant moan the action earns him. They’ve barely gotten started, and already he’s enjoying himself far too much.

One step has Dick pinned against the wall. With the paint disappearing, the soft, naturally tanned colour of his skin is revealed, and Slade doesn’t hesitate as he drops the sponge in favour of setting both hands to the kid’s hips instead. It’s easy then to lift him as he closes the height difference between them, just enough to slide his thigh between Dick’s legs and set his teeth against his neck without having to crane his own down to do so.

“Oh!” Dick cries out, the sound sharp against his ear, “Slade… _fuck_.”

“The only marks on your skin I want are the ones I put there,” he growls once he’s done. “Understand?”

“I…” The boy shudders in his arms, his cock already rock hard against Slade’s thigh. “You say that like I've got any control over it.”

Slade stills for a moment, lifting his head just enough from Dick’s neck that he can look the boy in the face. “You chose this, kid, remember?” he reminds him, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water. “I thought the whole point was for you to have the choice.”

Dick stills, then blinks. The realisation rolls back over his face like a wave, and the building tension suddenly eases again.

“You’re right,” he answers, “You’re right. I did… I did choose this.”

“You did,” Slade agrees, “So if there’s anything you don’t like, you’re going to tell me. Otherwise, I’m going to do what I want. Got that?”

Dick licks his lips. Water droplets fly from his chin as he nods. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good,” Slade replies, before dropping his head down to dig his teeth in, this time on the juncture between Dick’s neck and shoulder.

He can feel the thick meat of it as he bites down, lean muscle that most would find surprising on an ex-tribute Capitol pet. He might too, if he hadn’t watched the boy from the start. He was lean and fit as a child, and he’s stayed that way. Maybe he wouldn’t have, if he didn’t have such a fawning audience for his acrobatics.

They’re pretty, Slade will give him that. Graceful skill, and the only place the kid ever actually looks relaxed, but he’s much more interested in what those shows have taught him about Dick’s physical capabilities. Strong, skilled, but most of interest to him, very, _very_ flexible.

He slides a hand down one thigh, enjoying the jump of muscle under his palm, and wraps his fingers around the back of it. Dick has his head thrown back, offering more room for his teeth, and he takes advantage of that even as he begins to lift. Slowly, letting Dick realize his intention and then adjust, weight falling more heavily on the other leg and a breathy gasp leaving his throat.

He has to shift sideways to let the leg fold upwards anyways, so he lets the last bite go with a parting nip and pulls back just enough to watch. Dick’s face shows only the faintest bit of strain as his leg presses up against his chest, and Slade slides his hand further to unfold it until it’s straight, and he can wrap his hand around its ankle and pin it to the wall.

Hard to say, no pun intended, whether the strain is the stretch, or whether it’s because the kid is hard and very much enjoying all of this. Slade honestly doesn’t care which it is.

Either way, Dick’s hands come to grab at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin hard enough to sting. Slade leans in now that he can, pressing his lips to the underside of Dick’s jaw, to the lobe of his ear. It occurs to him, only briefly, that he should maybe resist leaving too many marks high enough that the stylists will have to focus on them. Then he throws that out the window with every other bit of restraint. To hell with the stylists, to hell with Dick’s Capitol masters. This isn’t about them.

No, this is specifically _against_ them. For taking a kid like this and trying to turn him into some painted, artificial plaything. Only the vain idiots of the Capitol would think that Dick wasn’t better just like he is, temper and sharpness included.

One of Dick’s hands grabs at his back when he bites down on his earlobe, with enough teeth to sting. Nails rake over his back in turn, longer than is sensible for someone that does acrobatics, surely, and leaving lines of bright pain in their wake.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thinks about having real scratches on his back. What it would be, to see Dick really unleashed, feeling free to do anything he wants with no fear of reprisal. Would he scratch? Would he bite? Is he as untamed as Slade wants him to be, under all this bullshit?

He takes Dick’s mouth next, using his height to force the angle as he presses their bodies together as close as he can. Dick grunts into it, breathless from the force of the kiss or the compression of his chest. Both, probably. Slade doesn’t let up on either.

He drives his tongue into the kid’s mouth, tastes the alcohol they shared even as he pulls his hand from Dick’s hip and shoves it between them. Dick moans for him, presses into the wrap of a hand around his cock with clear abandon, and those deceptively strong arms wrap fully around his back and pull him in just as hard as he’s pressing forward.

For a second, he wants the water off just to hear those sounds more clearly, but this time common sense prevails. Cold tile, heated water. One’s a hell of a lot more inviting than the other, and the water leaves them both just a little slick, skin sliding instead of catching in most places. Besides, there will be time. He’ll get as many of those sounds as he wants, once they’re out of here.

But first, he wants to see the kid come apart. Here, with all that paint washed off his skin, pinned up against the wall. He’ll get to the rest, but this is first.

The kid’s hard in his hand, hot even compared to the water, and every stroke of Slade’s hand makes his hips roll forward, fingers pressing into his back and ankle flexing against the hold he has on it. Slade’s not that young anymore, but he remembers being Dick’s age. Fast to come, fast to recover, generally speaking. That’s something worth taking advantage of.

Slade leaves the kiss only to take a breath, opening his eyes to look down at the kid and drink in the look on his face. Almost-pained pleasure, brow furrowed, teeth together but not doing enough to stop the strangled moans slipping free. Slade pulls the ankle back down, hooking the kid’s leg over his shoulder so he has his hand free. Dick’s eyes flick open at that, hazed, brilliant blue looking up at him, and Slade meets it as he wraps his hand around the back of the kid’s neck and squeezes hard enough it probably hurts.

Dick just shudders, eyes squeezing shut for a second before they blink back open and stare up at him. For a second Slade thinks the water flicking off his eyelashes is tears, but Dick bucks into his grip and gives a breathy gasp, cock twitching in his hand.

“Slade,” the kid gasps, and this time Slade thinks the rake of his nails is more purposeful. “Slade, please.”

That doesn’t sound like any plea to _stop_ he’s ever heard.

He bares his teeth, using his grip to force Dick’s head up at a sharper angle. “Come on, kid,” he growls, keeping his voice low and demanding. “You want this? Show me. _Now_.”

The kid’s heel digs into his back, leg closing on his shoulder and bearing down. It aches; the kid’s got strong limbs, even if these morons do their best to play it off. Slade can feel the tremble in it, and he knows, this time, what’s causing it. Not exertion, the kid’s got more stamina than that (he’s seen it, in his performances), but the impending, unstoppable tremble of muscle that marks the kid as being so, so close.

Dick somehow arches harder into him, head falling back in that same arch as he cries out, jerking against the tile of the shower. Strained tight, losing the ability to match the rhythm of his hand, and—

The kid falls out of the arch as he comes, mouth parting in a gasp and grips easing. He’d probably fold forward entirely if Slade let him, but he wants to see it. He wants every inch of it for himself, so he holds Dick’s neck in its arch to make sure that he gets to watch every moment of his expression slipping from pleasure-pain to something like bliss. He can honestly barely feel the kid’s release, with the water sluicing down their frames, but he doesn’t care.

The kid’s got a nice cock, but that’s not what interests him most. It’s the hands that cling to his back, holding on even through the slackening of everything else, and how Dick eases, completely, into his hold. For just that moment, as vulnerable as if he were truly trusting.

Slade admires it, putting aside the impatient heat of his own desire to just look at the kid. It’s satisfying, in a base, jealous way, to have the Capitol’s favorite doll in his hands like this. His, just for this little period of time. Except that this was given to him willingly, and that he holds above every one of those bastards. They had to buy, and take, but he was given this. That’s something that none of them will ever know.

Dick’s eyes slide open, looking up at him. Tired, but there’s still desire there, banked but very much alive. The hands on his back slide along it, no longer gripping but just stroking instead in idle, distracted movements. Dick’s gaze wanders along his jaw, down his neck and his shoulders.

Slade rolls his hips in slightly, sliding up against Dick’s hip and closing his eye for a moment at the wet, heated slide. He feels more than hears Dick’s breath hitch. His eye opens just in time to watch the flicker of a tongue out onto the kid’s lower lip. The thought comes, sudden and consuming, that he wants to see if that mouth is good for something other than spilling information.

Almost as if Dick can read the direction of his thoughts, there comes a, “What do you want?” that’s low and rolling like only sex can make a voice. It sounds good on him.

He could answer, demand what he wants, but instead he breaks away exactly far and long enough to let Dick’s second leg drop to the floor. Then he puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder and pushes, and Dick sinks to his knees with smooth grace. The look he gets is dark, heated, but Dick’s hands come to his thighs and there’s no need to prompt or even ask. Fingers curl around him with obvious experience, lips pressing to the crease of his thigh and groin at first.

Slade hisses at the first touch of the kid’s tongue to his cock, sliding his hand up and tangling his fingers in the black hair. Water cascades down his back, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind. His focus is all on the boy kneeling on the tile, eyes closed as he turns and rubs his cock along the smooth, soft expanse of his cheek. Slade can’t help but watch, leaning forward and bracing his free hand against the wall of the shower. There’s something obscene about it, all that beauty at his feet, his to ruin and debase.

Blue eyes open, flick up to stare at him as Dick shifts back enough to line up, with obvious intentions. He holds the gaze, watching Slade as much as Slade is watching him, as his mouth slides down. Slade doesn’t mean to let his breath catch, but it does anyway.

Sex is something he has regularly, but those are people that come to him expecting him to grant them favors or special treatment because of the ‘fun.’ It’s a good time, physically, but dealing with the irritation afterwards of them realizing he’s not planning on giving them anything gets tiring. Perhaps some of them were actually interested in him outside of his position, but if they all end up with the same behavior, what does he care which group they belong to?

Dick doesn’t want that. There’s nothing Slade could do for him anyway, even if this was payment instead of just a good time. Slade can’t, and won’t, jeopardize his position just for the sake of some kid, no matter how good looking he is. No matter how unsuited for this life; there are bigger things at stake.

None of that changes that it feels different, somehow, to have someone doing this solely because they want to, not because they want him to give them something. Different, to not have to so carefully guard his words or actions.

Slade breaks first, his eye fluttering shut and his fingers tightening in Dick’s hair as his cock vanishes between those lips. Further than most of the sex-selling climbers care to try, more concerned with their own comfort than really impressing him. And it is… impressive.

He should have expected it, but Slade still finds himself surprised as Dick takes him in, further and further and finally completely. Surely it’s practice, a party trick to show off to the Capitol people that want it. That’s all. But hands stroke his thighs, coaxing his eye open, and Slade finds himself not caring one single bit that that’s all it is.

Dick drags himself off as slowly as he went down. If he was smiling Slade wouldn’t be able to tell, but his gaze is pleased. Becomes more so when, nearly entirely off, his tongue flicks up beneath the head and Slade feels his whole body twitch.

It feels like a challenge, almost, and true or not, Slade finds his tolerance for letting the kid do whatever he wants fading away. He has permission, and clearly the kid can take it.

He shifts his grip in the kid’s hair, spreading his palm out over the back of his skull before curling his fingers to get a nice, solid hold. The flicker of Dick’s eyelids, the sigh and relaxation, gives Slade all the confirmation he might need. Still, he starts slow, pushing the kid down with steady, easy pressure until his cock hits the compression of his throat. Not a twitch of protest, so he pushes the rest of the way, and _damn_ but it’s good.

That’s good for a bit, manipulating Dick’s head as a living toy, but Slade runs out of tolerance for that too. It’s been a long time since anyone was willing to let him actually roll his hips, fucking instead of being gone down on, but Dick just spreads his knees for a steadier base and moans low in his throat, fingers curling against his thighs.

Just that acceptance, that _encouragement_ , pushes him close enough to the edge to make his teeth bare. Dick takes his thrusts, nails scraping over his thighs in reaction instead of complaint as he lets himself be used. Slade grinds any sounds between his teeth, curling the hand braced against the wall into a fist. He’s reluctant to let this end, reluctant to end the pleasure so quickly, until he fully remembers that he has time. If he wants this again, he can have it. If he wants to spend the next goddamn hour shoving fingers or a dildo or his cock down the kid’s throat, he _can_.

That in mind, he lets a growl finally escape and snaps his hips with a little more force for just one thrust. That finally gets Dick to gag just a little, but there’s no smack or shove to his thigh. Slade forces open his eye, staring at the kid, and the sight of his cock driving in and out of that mouth tips him across the edge. The force almost blindsides him, sweeping down his spine and out with intensity he doesn’t normally feel. He grunts, holding Dick tight to his groin and curling over him. His breath comes harsh between his teeth, a shudder actually making its way down his back as the kid swallows, repeatedly.

He pulls the kid off partially for his own comfort, and partially because somewhere in the back of his head is a reminder that Dick does need to breathe, at some point. He actually doesn’t have any idea how long the kid can hold his breath; water wasn’t part of his arena.

Dick doesn’t gasp when he comes off, only swallows again and takes in a breath through his nose. His head tilts back into Slade’s hand, and the hands on his thighs stroke in slow circles. No nail, now. His mouth is reddened, lips a little swollen from the rough treatment. Slade feels his cock do its best to twitch, regardless of its complete inability to get hard again immediately.

Christ, this kid is going to be the death of him, looking like that.

He drags the kid up by his hair, pushing him back against the wall and kissing him. There’s only the faintest taste of his release, whatever stray drops didn’t go right down his throat. Fuck.

Dick undulates against him, grabbing at his shoulders, at his back. Sexual and unrestrained, one arm even coming up and looping around his neck, fingers digging into his hair. He groans for that, and decides he is absolutely done with this shower.

He drops both his hands to get a grip on Dick’s thighs, prompting him with a grunt and a bite to his lip, and Dick gets the hint. Jumps a little as he lifts, and wraps those legs around his waist to stay up. The kid’s heavier than he looks, and Slade feels his back complain a little at the strain after the truly great orgasm it just went through, but he shoves it aside. He’s not old enough to get wiped out by one blowjob.

A shove of his elbow shuts the shower off, and he stops kissing Dick’s mouth only so he doesn’t slip on the tile and kill them both. Dick doesn’t seem to mind; lips and a tongue find his ear and then his neck, and thighs squeeze around his waist with clear intent.

He makes it to the bed without hitting something, despite Dick apparently doing his absolute best to be a distraction. Slade sets a knee on the bed, and only then pries the kid off him and shoves him back onto the massive monstrosity of it. Maybe it’ll be less offensive colors if he drags at least the blankets on top off; something to think about when Dick isn’t spread out on his back, water still making his skin glisten, droplets begging him to follow their paths with his teeth. Picture perfect, but in none of the ways the Capitol wants him to be.

As Dick slides his hands up above his head, stretching himself into one long, inviting arch, Slade decides that no, an hour is not going to be enough time to do everything he wants to.

Not nearly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! We're at the finish line with this one, and we hope you enjoy our little plotty ending to this story. It's been a lot of fun dipping our toes into this world with these characters, but for now, it's a wrap XD

Slade’s visits last through the rest of the year, and Dick finds he enjoys them a lot more now that he’s likely to get intense sex in addition to their talks about information. Not during though; Slade makes that very clear the first time he tries to mix the two things. Business, then pleasure. Sort of a shame; Dick finds he likes the idea of making Slade have to struggle to focus.

He likes, actually, every moment that Slade is visibly on the edge of losing some of his control. It’s a challenge, and he gets very, very good at it as time goes on. Most ‘clients’ he learns just because he wants to get them off and get them _out_ as quickly as possible, but Slade’s the first one that he learns just to make the experience better.

Then the games arrive.

Dick comes sharply back to the reality of his position when the tributes start to come in, though thankfully his job is much more the public face and less the actual interaction. He doesn’t think he could stand actually helping to mentor the career tributes from his district, knowing they’re going to go up against whatever random kids were drawn in the more disadvantageous districts.

He tries to stay away, tries not to let himself drown in the misery of it all and his inability to help. Spends a lot of time with Jason, focusing his efforts on making sure that Jason — newer and fresher to the trauma, and so much _angrier_ than Dick ever lets himself be — doesn’t do something that will get him killed. Or, as Dick has seen happen too many times, get someone else killed just to hurt him.

He listens to the rants, stands in his way where necessary. Reminds Jason, as many times as he has to, that anyone he cares about, anyone who he even talks to, will bear the brunt of his punishment if he acts out. A popular victor is too valuable to hurt, especially during this time, but the person who brings them food? Someone that smiles in their direction? A friend or family member from home?

Dick’s been careful to mold himself how they want, to never put anyone he used to know in danger, but he’s seen it happens. Not all victors can stand this life. Not everyone knows how to be a show animal.

Or, if there’s no one that they care about (as Jason tries to insist), there are drugs. Drugs that will hurt with no lasting damage, or make him giddy and completely out of control. Drugs that will make him willing, and responsive. Dick wishes he didn’t know that, but he’s seen that too. Seen stubborn, angry victors at parties that became loose and pliant, more than willing to be taken to a corner and used whatever way the Capitol butterflies wanted.

He doesn’t want that to happen to Jason. He doesn’t want… It would break a part of him, Dick thinks, to have that control taken from him.

It seems to drag on forever. Parties and events and appearances at every turn, and between it all his ever-rotating cast of clients, excited and more energetic than usual. Wanting to talk, always, about the games, and how are his tributes doing, and who does he favor to win, and so on. It wears him thin. Exhausts him, far deeper than just muscle and bone.

Then the games actually begin, and everything goes so sideways, so fast.

Dick is at a party, an opening start to the games that he can’t miss, even though he wishes desperately that he could. He has a high-ranking official’s arm around his shoulders, is leaning into a couch in a preferential spot that would make him the center of attention, if the games weren’t.

He tries to calm his breathing, tries to keep his smile but ends up leaning his head into the official’s neck to make sure that he can’t see as it falters. The pedestals rise, the game _starts_ , and Dick tries to suppress his flinches at each up-close, brutal death of the initial bloodbath. His heart pounds in his chest, memories of his own flight into the forest — desperate and _sure_ someone was going to put a blade in his back — overriding the images on the screen till he can almost smell the trees, feel the whip of the branches across his arms.

He digs his nails so hard into his hand that he feels the skin break.

And everything breaks with it. The arena _breaks_ , chaos for one second as everything lights up with wholly artificial lighting through a crack in the sky that certainly isn’t supposed to be there, and then the feed cuts out. Static.

Dick stares at the screen, shock overriding everything else. The Capitol citizens are slow to react, confusion turning to panic as the feed refuses to come back. Dick finds another victor’s eyes on the edge of the room, a woman he knows by name but not personally, and there’s something in her eyes that looks wild. Anticipation, almost like she knows something that he doesn’t.

Heavy boots intrude on the room. The arm around his shoulders is tight, so he can’t turn to look, but he does lift his head and twist it far enough to see Peacekeepers spreading out into the room. One stops in front of him, and Dick recognizes in a flash that it’s Slade. He’s helmeted, covered head to toe, but Dick’s never met anyone else as tall as him. It has to be.

“You,” Slade says, holding out a hand towards Dick, “with me.” His voice is modulated by the helmet, but the depth, the way he says it… Dick’s more sure than ever that it’s him.

The official lets go of him like he’s suddenly toxic. Dick doesn’t even pretend that upsets him, he just takes Slade’s hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. The ridiculous, partially sheer, completely useless wrap of blue fabric falls in its artful drapes. It looks good, he knows. Leaves his shoulders and most of his back bare, the better to show off the collar around his throat and the chains that drape down across his shoulder blades to his hips, and wind all the way down his legs.

This outfit, he thinks, is as much a reminder that he’s owned (literal chains; not subtle, this time) as it is enticement for the Capitol citizens that might buy him. The whole thing pinches if he moves the wrong way, and it takes careful manipulation of the fabric to not get it tangled around his legs and send him crashing to the floor. He’s managed, so far.

He manages again, gathering as much of the looseness into his hands as he can as Slade’s gloved hand presses against his low back, guiding him from the room. The peacekeepers are spread out and speaking to some of the attendees of the party, one at the door to block the way outside. He opens the door for them, though.

The corridor outside is empty, but Dick keeps his mouth shut and lets Slade push him along to the elevators. Only when the doors close and it starts to drop, does he ask, “What’s going on?”

The elevators are bugged, watched, but he thinks that’s safe enough. It’s a normal question.

Slade doesn’t look down at him. “Security issue,” is the response he gets, rough and impersonal. Like… Slade’s pretending not to know him. Or not to care at all. Standard for their public interactions. “You’re being taken to somewhere safe, until it’s resolved.”

It’s probably also normal enough to ask, “What happened?”

He doesn’t get an answer.

The elevator drops into the subterranean levels, which Dick recognizes as the path to the tunnels that provide quick, private access to most of the main buildings in the Capitol. He’s familiar with a good chunk of them, from being ferried back and forth to wherever he’s scheduled to be next, but the vehicles they have down here usually don’t have windows, so a lot of it is a mystery.

The door opens, and a push of Slade’s hand urges him forward before it leaves his back. Dick takes the hint, moving forward into the landing area — it’s chilly, and his skin prickles where it’s exposed — and eyeing the small row of transports sitting there, waiting for someone to take one. Then, without any warning, there’s a sharp prick at the back of his neck.

He jerks forward, slapping a hand on his neck as he spins. Slade is dropping a needle to the floor, the glass shattering on impact. Whatever it was, it’s empty, and Dick can feel… He can feel numbness, at the tips of his fingers. A rushing in his veins.

“You’re valuable, kid,” Slade is saying, just standing there and watching as Dick obeys the way his vision is starting to spin and drops down onto his knees before he can fall over. “Your good luck.”

Good luck? He doesn’t… He doesn’t understand. Why would Slade drug him, and pull him down here? Capitol orders? Would the Capitol order him taken to some safehouse or something, but not want him to know the way? Or… Or would…?

He can’t think. Even kneeling is difficult, and he slumps sideways without conscious approval, the spinning of his vision only made worse by the change in angles. He feels… heavy. Exhausted.

He sees boots approaching him, stopping in front of his face. Then everything fades out.

 

* * *

 

Consciousness comes slow. Gentle, at first, because though the drag of sleep is heavy, his memory doesn't come fast. Instead, he shifts and stretches, face buried in the pillow and the sheets sliding over his bare back. It takes a long few minutes for him to realize why that feels strange.

Firstly, he doesn’t sleep naked. And he's not naked, he can feel the constriction of pants, but he doesn’t even sleep shirtless because he doesn’t like the idea of anyone coming in and finding him that way. It’s one small piece of privacy, no matter how pointless. Secondly, the pillow under his cheek is much flatter than he’s used to, and it has an odd, fresh-laundry smell that doesn’t make sense to him. All his sheets come perfumed; he got used to it eventually.

He drags his eyes open, no matter how the fog wants him to keep them closed, and turns his head enough to see more than just the pillow. Grey walls, metal, with the ridges of something industrial. He blinks at them for several moments before that really gets through.

This isn’t his room. He isn’t…

Getting upright is difficult, his arms feel weak, but he forces them to work long enough to get him up to sitting. He drags the sheet around his chest, staring at the room with a complete lack of understanding. The room’s small, the only thing apart from the door some sort of vent in one corner, near the ceiling. It’s a little cold, too, odd after the perfect climate control of the Capitol’s buildings.

Is he… not in the Capitol anymore? What happened? Did he…?

Slowly, he remembers Slade. The cut-out of the arena’s feed, the panic, Slade and his Peacekeepers coming in. Getting escorted out and… Drugged. Slade drugged him. Drugged him and brought him here, presumably. God knows where ‘here’ is, or how long he was out, or what’s going on out there. It must have been serious, right? If the Capitol pulled him away like that and to… wherever this is.

Is this some kind of panic room? Why would the Capitol do that? He’s a victor, but he’s got no real power. He’s disposable, he knows that. Why would they take him, but not the official he was with, or any of the other citizens in that room? It takes some effort with his mind as slow as it is, but he remembers some of the other people at that party. Some of them were definitely important enough to be saved, if something catastrophic was happening.

Or is this…?

Dick looks at the door again, and then carefully turns his head to scan the room again, more closely. He’s had some practice looking for things that aren’t quite right, and his eye catches on something just inside the edge of the vent. There’s a shadow there that doesn’t look quite right, and maybe there’s a logical reason for it but he’s got enough paranoia in him to believe that it’s a camera, not just a trick of his mind.

There’s a chance, theoretically, that Jason did something drastic. Or someone else he knows, maybe. There’s a chance that the Capitol thinks that he’s done something, which would make this a cell. Holding chamber. Isolation, maybe.

What would they think he’s done, though? As far as he remembers, there’s nothing that he’s done that hasn’t been dictated _by_ them. Maybe his time with Jason…?

There’s too much of a fog to his thoughts to really panic, but the worry clogs up his chest, makes him close his eyes and lower his head to just try and focus through it.

Before he can, there's a heavy clunk in the direction of the door, and he lifts his head in time to see it open. A man slips in; pale, dressed in simple grey clothing that doesn't look like anything Dick's seen before, except that it does look like some kind of uniform. He's very… plain. Dick's not used to people being plain, unless they're Avox, but even then they have the strange headgear. Dick hasn't seen plain since… well, some of his visits to the other districts, maybe.

Dick's too tired to figure out the expression on the man's face, but there's something… off about it. Wariness, maybe?

"Richard Grayson?"

"Dick," he corrects automatically, shaking his head a little. "My name is Dick."

"Alright," the man agrees, staying by the door.

He's not holding anything, there's nothing visible he could be doing here. Dick glances out the open door, behind him, but all he can see is a wall of metal, just like the ones in here. Nothing that gives him any clue of where he is. There's a light though, brighter out there than in here, and it makes his head hurt just to look. He winces, lifting a hand to press against his forehead.

"What's…?" He re-prioritizes, starts over. "Where am I?"

The man doesn't move, still. Only looks at him, pausing as if considering whether to answer him, and then says, "District Thirteen."

Dick blinks. Lets his hand fall, as he stares at the man. "District Thirteen," he repeats, not even making it a question. He gets a nod.

Okay, he's drugged, and he's tired and hazy, but he's not _that_ drugged.

"District Thirteen was destroyed, decades ago," he points out, not even caring that his tone is dipping towards hostile. Whatever game they're playing, he doesn't want to play. If this is some… test of loyalty, or mind game, or just something to fuck with his head one more time, he's not going to participate. _No_.

This time, the man gives a little twitch of a smile. "Not as destroyed as the Capitol would like."

Dick breathes out, exhaling through his teeth and dragging the sheet tighter to his chest. "I'm not doing this. Whatever you think you're going to accomplish, it's not happening."

That gets him a frown instead. “Grays— Dick, it’s the truth. District Thirteen—”

“Sure,” he interrupts, sliding his legs off the bed to set his feet against the floor. “There’s just been a whole district sitting under the Capitol’s nose for dozens of years, and no one knows anything about it. And, apparently, I got to this secret district by being drugged and transported by a Peacekeeper commander, because _that_ would definitely be the person to be working for a secretly-not-destroyed district that’s… what? Fighting the Capitol?” He grits his teeth, holds the man’s gaze. (Grey, just like his clothes.) “I miss any other holes in this story?”

The man looks ready to argue, but then there’s a familiar, amused, “Does that normally work for you people?”

Dick’s gaze snaps up as a figure shifts into view, turning as if he was leaning against the wall just outside. Slade. No peacekeeper uniform, just the black undershirt that Dick’s familiar with and a pair of lighter black pants with enough pockets on them to hold probably every piece of make-up gear in Dick’s bathroom.

He watches as the guy stammers a little, shifting to get out of the way of Slade’s bulk. He has to stoop a little to get through the door, and the guy all but backs up against the wall. If he looked wary before, now he looks like he expects Slade to pull a knife or something on him at any second.

"Shut up," Slade growls at him, and the guy's mouth snaps shut. "Did you really think you could just tell him something like that and he'd believe it? You're dealing with a Capitol victor, not some naïve, outskirt-district optimist. You're going to have to do a little more than say some words."

Dick flinches, a little, when Slade lifts his hand and tosses something to him. His reflexes aren't good enough to catch it, so it hits his chest and falls to his thighs, but it's just a bundle of cloth. When he touches it, shakes it out, he can identify it as a shirt. The same neutral grey as the nameless man, but more casual and less uniform.

"You awake enough to walk, kid?" Slade asks, eye narrowing as he's studied.

Dick drags his fingers along the shirt, feeling the fabric. Simple, soft. Nothing like the lace and velvet and plastic he's been forced into over the years. "Yeah, I think so."

"Great. Then put that on and let's go."

He's not totally sure that he wants to, not even sure that this isn't somehow another trap, but… there's nothing being asked of him. No question, no show. All Slade is asking so far is for him to walk out of the room, and Slade's the one that brought him here to begin with. That's not going to prove anything to… whoever is watching him, right? He's not committing to anything.

The shirt stretches, when he pulls it on. Clings tight but doesn't actually feel smothering. It's softer than what he's used to though, more like some of the things he used to wear to bed when he was a kid. Basic but well-worn and comfortable. Very much like the pants he has on.

Nameless guy makes a protesting sound when Dick stands, swaying just a little but keeping his balance. "You can't just—”

Slade cuts him off with a snort, holding out a hand for Dick to take (and he doesn't feel totally stable, so he does) and arching an eyebrow. "Who's going to stop me? You?"

That only shuts him up for a second, just long enough for Dick to take the last step to Slade. "It's against protocol, he can't—”

"I don't care," Slade again interrupts. "Go whine to your master; if they want to stop me, they can come and do it. Otherwise, I'm going to convince the Capitol's golden boy that you're not a lying bastard, and you can thank me after."

Slade ducks back through the doorway, and the man just stares in stunned, panicked silence as Dick follows. It's a corridor outside, the same metal, like he saw, and very… industrial. It's all industrial, like he's inside the maintenance shafts for a giant engine or something. Slade lets go of his hand and wraps that arm around his waist instead, and Dick lets that grip support him, leaning slightly into his side. Standing has only made him more woozy, and Slade is comfortingly solid.

They get to the end of the corridor, take a right, and Dick finally says, "I don't, you know."

"Hm?"

There's a bank of what looks like elevators, and Slade pulls him to a stop in front of one.

"Believe it," Dick clarifies, letting Slade pull him forward once the door opens. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm not… I'm loyal. I'm not going to believe in… secret districts or rebels or something."

Slade huffs out an amused breath, finally looking down at him as the elevator starts to move. "You're not loyal, kid. You're a slave or a whore depending on the day, and just because you're good at faking it doesn't mean you like it. If you could take the Capitol down, you'd do it. For that younger friend of yours, if not for yourself."

Jason, he must be talking about Jason. He focuses on that above the sting of the earlier words, burying those truths down with all the others that he tries not to think about. He knows what he is, and what his position is. He has too many people he cares about, and too many ways for them to hurt him, to ever think about stepping out of line. He'd never act on any of the thoughts that have collected in the back of his head over the years. Never.

The metal of the floor is cold, and Dick shifts and turns his head to bury it in against Slade's chest. At least that's warm, even if he wishes he had socks, or heavier boots like the ones Slade's wearing. Are those the peacekeeper uniform boots? He's… not sure. He hasn't looked at Slade's feet much, especially not while they were both still dressed.

"What happened?" he asks instead of anything else, dropping the whole issue of loyalty.

He's not expecting the frank, "The games were attacked; a statement by District Thirteen, which in a minute you'll believe is a real thing." Dick grunts his disagreement, but doesn't interrupt. "They cut all video feed from the arena, simultaneously started an assault in a few other fronts. It's a siege. The Capitol's got some good defenses, but the other districts have been taken so it's pretty much only a matter of time. They don't have the numbers to hold out."

That seems like a lot.

"How long have I been out?"

Slade shrugs. "The train takes a few days; I smuggled you on one and it was safer if you stayed unaware for the trip. You've been awake a couple times, but I'd be surprised if you remember any of it."

He searches his memory, squeezing his eyes shut to try and focus on the dim, vague bits of recollection, but nothing comes except a couple snatches of sensation. Movement. Cold.

Dick swallows, wondering idly why the elevator is still going. That's a long way up. "So… the arena and the Capitol were attacked, you pulled me out of that party and drugged me, and then… smuggled me on a train to some distant corner of the country, unconscious pretty much the whole time, to… take me to a secret district that was supposed to have been bombed to ashes? Filled with rebel fighters that are going to take down the Capitol?"

“What, don’t believe that?”

Slade’s voice is dry and amused, like he also recognizes just how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. The elevator starts to slow.

“No,” Dick says, bluntly. “You’re a Peacekeeper commander, why would you be working against the Capitol? And District Thirteen was _destroyed_. Everyone knows.”

“Everyone ‘knows’ a lot of things that aren’t true, Dick. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

The door opens, and Slade leads him out into another corridor that slants upwards, made of stone this time instead of metal, though there are reinforced struts along the edges. Heading uphill is a little more difficult than Dick would like, but Slade helps support him, arm a lifeline around his back and waist. Otherwise, Dick thinks he might have just sat down against the wall for awhile, maybe even dozed back off to maybe sleep off the rest of this drug.

There's a door at the end, and Slade keys in a code on the panel beside it, which makes it come open with a heavy click. Beyond is... grass. Sunshine, and the immediate buzz of insects. Dick flinches at the first touch of the sun-warm ground against his feet, and his eyes have to squint to not be blinded. It's... He hasn't been in grass, since...

Since he was a tribute.

It looks like a meadow, but there are heavy stone pieces scattered through, different sizes and odd angles, and—

Something rings familiar, in the back of his head.

Dick stares at the stone, turning to see the rest of the field, and there’s an arch a few dozen feet away, crooked but standing. In a sharp flash, enough to clear a little of the fog from his head, he remembers where he’s seen that arch. Not from this angle, but from above, looking down on a blackened field and smoldering ruins.

“These are the ruins of District Thirteen,” he says, quietly.

Slade leans back against the stone beside the still-open door, crossing his arms. “They are.”

His gaze falls to the ground, and he thinks about that long, long elevator ride. All the different floors they must have gone past, all that space. That's... That could be enough to hide a town. Maybe not a full district, but a bombed-out husk wouldn't be a full district anyway, just whoever survived. If that could actually be true, and he's wavering on whether that has even a hint of feasibility. How could the Capitol not know about this? Surely these people need supplies, food, or medicine. Surely they can't do literally everything underground.

Also, none of that answers why Slade would be the one to tell him any of this. Or the one to bring him here.

Dick moves forward a bit, till he can sit down on the sharply angled edge of what probably used to be a real building. "Why would you be working for them?" he asks, repeating the question from the elevator in only slightly different words.

Slade's gaze is steady. "I have family here. A son and daughter. My ex-wife worked intel for the Capitol. When Grant died in the games with you, she took my other son and left. I found out, later, that it was to here. When I started passing them information, I slept with some people out here. Ended up with a daughter whose mother passed away when she was a few years old."

Dick blinks. He didn't know Slade had family. He knew about — his throat tightens just thinking about it — Grant, but it had never really occurred to him to follow that to the natural conclusion that Slade must have had a wife, or a partner, or something. Maybe he hadn't wanted to think of Slade as someone who would come to him while they had another partner.

"Look, kid," Slade says, with a roll of his shoulders. "This place isn't much better than the Capitol; it's just different. Stay here, move to a different district, do whatever you want. But yeah, they're telling you the truth, more or less."

Strange qualifier. But everything about this is strange.

He rubs his hands over his arms, looking around for another moment. It’s all so bright, so _natural_. Even in his childhood, he’d never been in a place like this. All of District One’s grass and ‘nature’ is in strict little squares and parks, carefully trimmed and encouraged to look real but not wild. This is wild. Grass as high as his thighs, flowers spread out in actual random patterns, trees in the distance.

“Why me?” Dick finds himself asking, looking back at Slade. He looks out of place here, in the black clothing and with the paler skin, but not uncomfortable. Not like him. “I’m just a victor, and I’ve never done anything to encourage… all this. Why would they bring me here?”

"You're more important than you know," Slade answers, just watching him. "Capitol's been parading you as their golden-boy example ever since you won your games. Pretty little District One loyalist; knows his place, believes in the Capitol, always so grateful for the life he's been given. Sound familiar?"

Dick feels the ache in his gut, wraps his arms tighter around his chest.

“They want you to do propaganda, from what I’ve heard. Could be powerful, you turning on the Capitol.” Cold rushes down his spine, and his eyes must go wide because Slade snorts and adds, “Relax. Right now, Capitol thinks I abducted you. Whatever demands you’ve got, whatever you need to happen before you let them use you, I’m sure they’ll do it. From what I understand, they’re desperate for a figurehead. Someone everyone knows, to convince the pockets still fighting to give it up.”

It’s a terrifying thought, to go against the Capitol, to actually speak out against them. Even if he really believes this whole story. There are so many people that they could hurt to get to him, even if he’s out of their reach. If that’s real. He doesn’t have family anymore but there are other victors, even some friends he’s made. Capitol servants too, that pretend to know him, even if the most he does is smile and politely answer questions. He doesn’t care about them, but they’re blameless. They’re just doing what they know.

“So, whoever runs this place, they told you to bring me?”

Slade grunts a, “No. I don’t take orders from them, I just knew that they would want you here, and you hated the Capitol as much as your aggressive little friend. Took an opportunity where I saw it.”

Dick takes a shallow breath, watching Slade tilt his head up and scan the sky. "Jason. What happened to him?"

"Saw him this morning, getting off a transport. Seemed tired, a little ash-covered, but fine." Slade shrugs, pushing off the wall to stand straight again. "I'm not involved in rescue; I don't know who they decided to get out. Come on, kid; it's not safe to be out here too long."

He stands on his own this time, oddly reluctant to leave the warmth of the sun behind but recognizing the seriousness to Slade’s comment. There has to be a reason that this whole place is underground, right? Drones, or aircraft, or scanners maybe… Or maybe the Capitol is just trying to strike back, however it can. Whatever it is, he believes that Slade is telling him the truth.

The door shuts behind them, and it’s chilly in comparison, the floor feels freezing against his feet.

Slade grunts and wraps an arm around his back again, tugging him into his very warm, very big side. “Let’s get you something warmer, kid. After that, want to see the rest of this place?”

Dick thinks, briefly, about the guy back in the room, insisting that them leaving was against protocol. Surely, someone will find them eventually. Stop them from just wandering around. But that could be a ways away.

“Yeah,” he agrees, relaxing into Slade’s side. “That sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

“Ready?” the official in front of him asks, grey military of her uniform done up tight around her throat. She’s severe — most people here are severe — but Dick knows it’s not personal. She’s got a lot of frightened, unsure people she needs to manage.

Hell, he was one of them. It took some arguing, but they gave him everything he asked for. Got everyone he was worried for out safely, and made sure that the Capitol didn’t have anyone to use against him.

He takes a last breath, bracing his hands against the podium and straightening up. “I’m ready.”

She turns, nods to the man behind the camera and he clicks it on. Holds up a hand behind it, counting down. The initial run, this run, is live. But they’ll run it again, assuming that not all of this will broadcast.

Three. Two. One.

“My name is Dick Grayson. Most of you know who I am, but for those who don’t, I was a victor for District One, years ago.” He leans into the podium, angling his head slightly down and staring straight into the lens of the camera. For the first time in all those years, he lets his voice darken into anger, lets what he really _feels_ out of the pit of his stomach. “I want to tell you _exactly_ what that really means.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Skali's tumblr](https://skalidra.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Fire's tumblr](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)


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